


I want to do all the things your lungs do so well.

by smoth



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: M/M, Mental health vent, Multi, Multiple Universes, Sexual Content, Soft relationship dynamics, Tags In Each Chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-03-30 15:31:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoth/pseuds/smoth
Summary: A lot of things I've written and haven't been confident enough to post. Mostly smut. I really like soft relationship dynamics. I don't see a lot of it in this fandom and maybe it is for good reason, but I like it.Tags in each chapter to save space.





	1. Three weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trott and Smith are on field trips in different places and Ross is left at university by himself. Trott comes home after three weeks and they reunite. 
> 
> Tags;

Finding a day off, lately, was very rare for Ross. Between classes, home studies, his job and his voluntary work at the dog shelter, his schedule was much more full and sporadic than he’d known how to deal with. It wasn’t just him, of course. University life after the holidays had made many a student much busier than they wanted to be and more in demand than they ever had been; the demands spanning from homework to essays to trips. The trips were something that Ross was both a fan and not a fan of. Smith and his history course had taken him places like Rome, and Paris, and Normandy. He'd always come back bursting with facts and photos and little souvenirs - genuine ones, not crappy plastic magnets. Ross had a little shelf on the wall, just above his desk, filled with tiny sculptures of the colosseum, a few framed photos of Smith in various places, and a little clay l'arc de triomphe. 

The thing with Smith having history trips meant that he and Trott could have more room in the bed. It was only a queen, and their accommodation had rules about anything bigger than that, so the three of them would have to tangle together. Having more room was good, but that only got paired with the fact that there was someone missing. 

The worst times, in Ross’ opinion, was when he wasn’t busy, and they were both on trips. 

Trott was studying 3 languages, and right now he was spending three weeks in France. Smith had just left, two weeks in, to go to Scotland. Ross’ schedule was clear, and he had the whole bed to himself. It wasn't a relationship ruiner or anything; they still texted every day, and were able to have phone calls most nights. So when the phone call last night had told him that Trott would be home by the afternoon, Ross had reserved a table at a restaurant close enough to their house, almost right away. That night would be spent together, with food, and a sickening amount of photos and stories to share, probably. 

The restaurant was an Italian one, about 10 minutes away. Ross had showed up 15 minutes early, already at the table. He didn’t want to run into Trott at the flat while he was dropping off bags and sorting his hair out; and this way he could have their drinks ready and waiting. Half of the brunet’s attention was looking at all of the decor in the room, like the candles on every table and the pots and pans and utensils that had been placed onto the far wall as a focal point. Ross thought that maybe if he didn’t choose to study design that he could go to Italy himself for the real thing. Ross’ eyes occasionally twitched back to the door, to see if Trott had turned up yet. 

The fourth time his eyes drifted from the candles, he saw him. Trott didn’t see him, but Ross did. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks to paint a blush below his eyes. The shorter’s hair had grown, and he was wearing a burgundy button-up, the collar tight around his neck, a brilliant contrast to how tanned he had gotten on his travels. Below the waist was the usual; his black jeans and black socks and black shoes. He had the black gauges in his ears, the ones that Smith had got him and the shorter had stashed them away ‘for a special occasion’. He was talking to the waiter by the door, smiling. 

Eventually, the waiter escorted Trott to the table where Ross was sat, and the taller promptly stood up, grin plastered warmly on his face. 

“You look great! What the hell?” He laughed, arms open. 

Trott smiled. “Must have been France having an effect on me, huh?” He wrapped his arms around Ross, pressing his nose into the taller’s neck. Ross rested his chin on Trott’s head and inhaled happily. 

They’d both been sat on plush chairs and passed dishes between them as they exchanged complaints about the past few weeks, Trott showing some surprisingly high quality shots on his phone of Nice, arguing between giggles and stealing bites off of each others’ plates.Ross lost count of how many times he’d spit rosé back into his glass in fits of laughter before they both started tapping watches and waving for the bill.

They kicked off their shoes after locking the flat’s door, shaking the rain off of their heads.  
“Miss this?” Ross muttered, taking the coat off of the shorter’s back. 

“More than I thought I would.” Trott flashed a smile. “Although, anything is better than the shitty hotel we were stuffed into at last minute.”

“Not miss having two giants to sleep with, either?”

“Tch, no.” Trott clicked his tongue against his front teeth. 

They fell into a comfortable quiet to focus their thoughts on trudging to the bedroom, clothes falling in a careless line to the bathroom as they pushed through the bare minimum of a nightly routine.

By the time they fell into bed, naked and drunk, it was 1 a.m and unbearably hot. Ross kicked the duvet down with an irritated huff and turned onto his side, cheek hitting the pillow and his eyes closing almost immediately. Trott’s arms circled his hips, and Ross felt the soft, familiar press of lips against his shoulder before falling asleep. 

The morning always was cold. Ross had an awful habit of turning off the central heating during the night. Sure, it gave him incentive to get out of bed in the morning, but that isn’t what he wanted right now. He was also far too aware of the lack of Trott behind him. Had he gone to turn it back on? 

“Trott?” Ross croaked out. He tucked the duvet around his waist a little. 

“Sorry, love.” Trott poked his head into the doorframe, then crept into the room, closing the door behind him. “Was just turning on the heating. You have this place like a freezer, Ross.” The shorter came to sit on his knees, facing Ross. He leaned down to press a kiss to his taller boyfriend.

Ross knew, in the back of his mind, that he was still slightly drunk. While 8 hours of sleep was nowhere near enough to completely sober up, the worst of it had worn well away by now, leaving the alcohol blameless for his lack of inhibition as he kissed Trott a lot more forcefully than he intended. There was a familiar chill that clung to Trott, to his skin and his hair, and Ross had the sudden and drunken urge to wrap his arms around him and yank, to pull him down into the warmth under his sheets. He wanted to tuck him in and curl around him and kiss him just like this, shock his sluggish heartbeat into action, make its tempo match his own.

The kiss deepened, and Trott moved to straddle Ross’ hips, back arched to keep their lips connected. Ross wasn’t aware of anything outside of the intense desire to kiss back, curling his fingertips around Trott’s shoulders, eventually reaching up and cupping a hand around the back of his neck. Trott shifted, trailing a long hand over his boyfriend’s bare stomach, whispering against the shell of his ear.

“I want you.”

Ross’ actions froze at the words, a breath catching in his throat as his heartbeat jumped insistently against his ribs. Trott’s hand continued to slide down as he crept back to straddle Ross’ knees, caressing his hipbone and flattening his palm against Ross' thigh.

“Is this okay?”

Ross was still too drunk and drowsy to do much more than nod, letting his knees part, sighing as Trott’s fingers brushed over him, already half-hard.

Trott smirked to himself as his other hand came up, gently taking Ross’ wrists one at a time and pressing them into the pillow by his head, an unspoken command in the way his touch lingered: leave these here. Ross’ stomach twisted with anticipation at the familiar gesture. Trott leaned down to kiss him once more.

The shorter, as it turned out, was an excellent kisser. In ways, better than the other two thirds of their relationship. Smith’s kisses had a lot of beard scratching on cheeks and tended to wrap his entire self around either of them. Ross was always just slightly slow. 

But Trott was very easy for Ross to get caught up in, even when he was sober, so it wasn’t that the hand tracing up and down his thigh went unnoticed. 

It just became much more noticeable when it was a finger sliding up, past his perineum, tracing his entrance with firm circles. He gasped out against Trott's lips, tilting his hips up as the single digit slipped in, eyes fluttering shut as his awareness narrowed to nothing but the smooth drag of dry skin against skin.

And then a second finger joined the first and he gasped, loud and sudden and cut short by Trott's other hand pressing firm against his mouth. Ross’ eyes blinked open, meeting the dark chocolate pair in the dimness.

“Quiet.” Another steady push of his fingers, another lewd sound melting into muffled silence against Trott’s palm. “We’ve gotten complaints from the halls before, love.”

That piece of information flitted out of his mind almost the second it reached it, still too hazy and warm with drink to care about anything aside from the man above him. Ross moaned once more into Trott's hand as his boyfriend worked him open, so thorough and slow that there was nothing but warm pleasure swirling in the tipsy haze of his senses. He felt those long fingers crook up and his moans coalesced into a soft shaky cry, eyelids fluttering shut as he rocked his hips.

It didn't take much, not with how warm and relaxed he was and how well Trott knew his body, hitting that spot and moving with him, reducing him to a shuddering mess almost embarrassingly fast. When Trott asked if he was ready in a low murmur against his ear, Ross nodded, fingers twitching into the pillow as he was left empty and wanting. He felt the mattress dip as Trott shifted to his knees above him and he opened his eyes to the telltale rustle of sheets being shoved away, able to properly look at him. 

Trott's torso was hunched over as he fiddled with the cap of the lube bottle. Ross barely noticed Trott even fetching it. The shorter man pushed his briefs down just enough to take himself out, one hand lazily stroking as the other dripped lube onto himself.

Ross’s breath caught in his throat, watching intently as the older slicked himself, the desire to reach out and touch him almost impossible to ignore. He imagined curling his fingers around him, imagined his lips following his hand down the length, imagined a choked gasp and a hand twisting tight into his hair, imagined closing his eyes against hips thrusting forward, imagined the noises he’d make as he spilled down his throat- 

He was brought out of his trance by one hand bracing itself on the pillow and the other positioning him between his legs, and now his arms ached with the desire to reach up and embrace him.

But Trott wanted quiet, and Trott wanted his hands to himself, and Ross was nothing if not capable of following instructions to the letter, so instead he smirked and shifted forward, pressing insistently against the head of his erection.

“Eager?”

Trott's only response was to push forward, sliding almost halfway in with no resistance, and Ross let out a shuddering breath as his knees bent and his feet pressed flat into the mattress, giving him leverage to arch up. He sighed in delight as Trott rocked his hips gently until he was fully inside him, the dull ache quickly fading to a throbbing pleasure that was only heightened by the fuzzy tipsiness still clouding his mind.

That first full thrust sent shivers up his spine, arousal sparking white-hot and intense under his skin. The second thrust did it - the way their hips met and the way he slid in made Ross wail, earning him a hand hastily slapped across his mouth, shoving his head down onto the pillow.

“Shhh.”

Ross nodded, eyes glazing over with desire; Trott was moving again, hand still firm over his mouth, steady and deep thrusts drawing a muffled whine from him. This slow thoroughness felt good but Ross felt amazing, warm, and open, and pliant, and he wanted to take advantage of it.

No, he wanted to be taken advantage of.

He wanted hard and fast and intense, wanted his world to tilt and shatter until he was aware of nothing but Trott inside him, filling him, holding him-

He reached over, tugging his lover's fingers from his lips and sucking in a gasp of air as Trott pressed in, rocking inside him briefly before sliding out again.

“Harder?” He whispered, moving his hips in what he hoped was an enticing gesture.

“You'll be loud,” Trott murmured, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead.

“You love it when I’m loud,” Ross whispered back, words sharper than he’d intended.

“I love it when you’re loud for me.”

“Oh-” And whatever he was about to say next was lost to another maddeningly slow thrust, biting his lower lip as his hips tilted up obligingly. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, quiet moans mingling with soft gasps and sighs, but the agonizing push-pull of their hips was quickly becoming not enough. Ross let his head fall back onto the pillow, heart pounding in his ears and his breathing shallow as he turned his head to whisper against Trott's ear.

“Please.”

Trott stilled, the shift almost palpable between them as he drew in a quiet, sharp breath against Ross's cheek. Ross wasn't in the business of begging, but he was very much in the business of using words to get what he- what they both- wanted. He knew exactly how to do it, knew just how to push that well-worn boundary of his boyfriend’s restraint, and if it took a little lip-service to get there, well. 

“Chris, please,” he whispered again, urging his voice towards desperate, hand tightening around his fingers. “Please, I'll be quiet, I just need you so bad right now, I-”

The reaction was sudden, more than he was anticipating; Trott ripped his hand out of Ross's with such force that he was left stunned into silence as Trott leaned back, both hands gripping his hips and lifting him slightly as he thrust into him hard.

“Oh god, yes, fuck yes,” Ross moaned, duly replacing his hand on the pillow as he rolled his hips up, each thrust jarring his ever-louder moans. His own neglected cock ached deliciously as he writhed underneath him, clenching his fingers into soft down.

"Ah," and that cry seemed to slip out unbidden past pleasure-drunk lips, way too loud and unable to care as he dug a heel into the small of his back. "Fuck, harder, please, you feel so fucking good-"

He felt Trott shift, felt his strong hands tilt his hips just so and he was suddenly very incapable of words, the way he was sliding into him leaving him light-headed and trembling, his moans tipping to breathless and soft. Everything was so perfect, the angle just right now with both legs locked around cloth-covered hips, arousal curling hot in his belly as his entire body tensed.

"I need," he gasped, words catching in his throat as the pleasure sharpened to a knife edge, "Need my hand, I need to come, please let me come-"

"You broke a promise, love," and the thrust that followed those words had Ross crying out in ecstasy, sharp and loud as his fists clenched hard around the pillow. "Why should I?”

“Fuck, I-”

“Promised to be quiet," he hissed, holding Ross tight against him on the next thrust and rolling his hips. "So why-" Trott stilled, breath catching and eyes slipping shut for just for a moment, and when he finally moved again it was with those slow and deep thrusts from before. “Again, why should I?”

"Fuck," he whimpered, need dripping from his voice, eyes half-closed and so blissed out that he barely registered the words tumbling from his lips. "Yeah, I'll be quiet, whatever, I'll fucking do whatever, just please, please-"

Trott shifted, leaning forward and covering Ross's mouth in a searing kiss. Ross moaned into it, low and soft and sweet, and a gentle nudge from Trott had him unfolding his legs as cool lips moved from his mouth to his jawline, kissing upwards until he brushed against the lobe of an ear.

“Cover your mouth with your hand.” He paused for a moment, as if considering something, before continuing. “I don't care what you do with your other hand.”

Fuck.

He realized belatedly that his ‘lip service’ had given way to begging at, roughly, the very first “yes”. And he knew himself well enough to know that he should have felt embarrassed - or humiliated, or something - at losing control at the hands of something he'd asked for. He should have, but he didn't. Where embarrassment should have been lurking he found only raw desire and a trembling excitement, knowing without a doubt that this was exactly what he wanted, knowing that he wasn't so much relinquishing control as he was lending it. And Ross trusted Trott with that control, fully and completely.

He locked eyes with Trott as he pressed his hand to his mouth, his other hand inching up to splay out on his stomach, the unwavering eye contact as much defiance as he could muster at this point. Trott cupped a hand to his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. The touch was soothing, grounding, so at odds with the wonderfully tight and hot stretch of his muscles. A soft kiss followed the path of his thumb, almost mockingly chaste.

“Don't close your eyes. Keep looking at me.”

The words sent heat shooting down his spine, settling deep in his belly as Trott moved, not breaking eye contact.

“Oh,” he murmured, lips parting and his breath catching slightly as he picked up the pace, the hand on Ross's cheek sliding back to tangle in his hair. “Oh, fuck, Ross.”

It was too much.

It was too much, the intimacy of seeing his eyes soften, seeing how easily the facade of control dropped, seeing the adoration and focus and love in Trott’s gaze. The eye contact only seemed to heighten it, making him feel intensely vulnerable- and it was vulnerable, as much as preferred to not think about that.

He felt Trott's thumb caress the soft fine hairs near his temple before sweeping up, brushing the shell of his ear. Ross made a choked noise against his palm and the way Trott’s eyes widened in response made the pressure and pleasure almost unbearable. He reached his other hand the rest of the way down, whimpering high in the back of his throat as he curled his fingers around his cock.

He stroked himself in time to Trott's thrusts, breath quickening through his nose and eyes sliding half-shut against the pleasure thudding through his veins. And staring his boyfriend in his eyes while he jerked himself off should have been awkward and weird and not this fucking amazing, and yet-

“Let me watch you come.” And oh fuck, there it was, that edge of pleasure hidden in the desire and want and need in his lover’s voice, because for all of his begging Ross still holds all of the control, Ross is the one letting him-

His eyelids fluttered shut as he hit his peak, breath catching and thighs trembling as he spilled into his hand with a throaty moan. He felt lips and teeth pressing insistent into the column of his throat, felt two hands brace themselves by his head and Ross squeezed his eyes shut as the pace of Trott's hips tipped to brutal, hard and fast and everything he'd wanted. Ross bit down into his palm to muffle his cries as he threw his head back, his other hand pressing sharp fingernails into the skin of his stomach. It was dizzying and overwhelming and entirely too much and he loved it; loved the ache at the edge of each throb of pleasure, loved the way his body rocked with each thrust.

“Your hand,” he heard, the words tumbling out rough and quick between low pants, cutting through the hazy mess of his thoughts. “Move your hand.”

Eager as he was, Ross barely had time to comply before Trott kissed him hard, winding an arm around his waist and sliding a hand into his hair, pressing Ross tight against him and moaning loud into his mouth as he came with a sharp jerk of his hips.

He didn’t realize he had wrapped his legs around him until they gave out and fell to the mattress, jarring him in a way that was far too much when he was already so hypersensitive, and he tugged insistently at Trott's hair when it became obvious that the kiss wasn't ending anytime soon. A steady hand slid down against his hipbone, adjusting both of them slowly and carefully, and Ross's quiet sigh of relief was cut short by fingers curling tighter in his hair as Trott kissed him like he hadn't seen him in years.

“Three weeks,” Ross gasped, when they finally parted.

“I know.”

“Three fucking weeks.”

“I know, love.” His lips pressed light across his jaw and down his neck.

The bed shifted under him and Ross felt Trott press a kiss to his forehead before his weight was gone altogether. Ross waited until he heard the whisper of clothing being removed to raise a hand and cast the laziest prestidigitation of his entire existence, not even bothering to open his eyes. He shifted onto his side and pulled the sheets up around him, hoping his drawn-out sigh and exaggerated ‘getting comfortable’ motions would be enough to entice Trott to join in just that much faster.

He didn’t have to wait long; he felt Trott slide in behind him and press up against his back a moment later, one arm positioned under Ross’s head and the other draping around his waist, fingertips tracing dangerously close to his bellybutton as he leaned in to brush cool lips against the lobe of his ear. 

He let his mind drift, briefly, to the thought of waking up to insistent, beard scratchy kisses, and cold hands on his skin. 

“Ross?” 

“Mm?” 

“We have so much room on the bed, for now.”


	2. tessellate me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trott can be a gentle dom, from time to time, when it's needed. I've had a personal outlook into sex positivism and how things like bdsm scenes can be an anchor for some people, to ground with, after a stressful event. Just as good as yoga and stress eating. 
> 
> Tags; bdsm scening, nipple clamps, restraints, (...)

“You doing okay, sunshine?” Chris asked, voice soft, running his fingers down from the ropes tying Ross’ wrists above his head to comb through his freshly washed hair. 

“Yeah,” Ross mumbled, his eyes half lidded already. “Feels good.”

Chris smiled to himself. Ross really needed this. They hadn’t had any time to let it happen, thanks to work and Ross being generally stubborn, but now they could take the time to do this.

“Safeword?” he murmured, still lightly touching Ross’ cheek with the back of his finger. He had learned a long time ago that his boyfriend needed touch during these sessions.

“Moon,” Ross mumbled back, arching into Chris’ touch.

Chris leaned down to reward him with a soft kiss. “Good boy,” he whispered, watching the pink bloom across Ross’ cheeks. “So beautiful like this, sunshine. So beautiful; so perfect.” He smoothed some of the hair back from Ross’ forehead and cupped his cheek, brushing his thumb over the freckles there. He wanted to kiss every single one.

Ross leaned into the touch. Already, his breathing had begun evening out and his eyes were closed, long lashes dark against his pale cheeks.

“And I get you all to myself,” Chris continued, still running his free hand up and down Ross’ side. His thumb brushed across the man’s strong cheekbone, watching those long lashes shudder. He brought both hands down, brushing over Ross’s nipples with this thumbs. The white-haired man smiled as he heard a moan underneath him.

“Do you want to try something new tonight, sunshine? Or do you want something we usually do?” he asked with a soft smile.

Ross’ tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and Chris watched him, less of a predator waiting to pounce, and more like an observant lover. “What would the new thing be, Trott?” he whispered softly.

Chris leaned over his bound boyfriend, golden eyes darkened. “You know how much I love playing with these?” he asked, brushing his thumbs over Ross’ nipples once again.

Ross’s voice hitched in his throat and keened, nodding. “Yeah,” he exhaled, gasping as Chris’ nimble digits pinched the hardened buds, rolling them between thumbs and forefingers. 

“I got some nice clamps for them the other day,” Chris mentioned. “Would you like to wear them? I can get your blindfold, too, if you’d like.”

Ross considered it, shuddering as Chris gently pinched his nipples again. “Yes, please.”

“So polite, so good.” Chris smiled gently down at his boyfriend, again. The pink settling on Ross’ cheeks darkened slightly, reddened patches around his nose. “Wait right here for me, sunshine. Let me go and grab them.” 

“Okay,” Ross’ lashes fluttered as he watched his boyfriend make his way over to their dresser, where the small bag with the clamps rested. He withdrew them from the bag, the chain in between each clamp shining in the low light of the room, and carried them back over to where Ross laid in relaxed bliss. Chris set the cool metal chain on just beside Ross’ hip, and the shorter reached under the bed for a plastic box. 

“Ross?” Chris said, placing one hand on the blue eyed man’s thigh, feeling the muscle jump underneath of his palm. “Can you tell me your colour?”

“Green,” Ross whispered.

“Good,” Chris praised, using his other hand to unclasp the hinge on the box. 

A variety of multi-coloured sex toys and bottles of lube all glinted in the light, and if they were in any other mood, he’d have made a joke about it being like a treasure chest of glowing coins. Chris rifled through the several ridged strap-ons and gags, plugs and cuffs until he felt the soft silk of the blindfold. 

It was Ross’ favourite, recently. The texture was soft on his skin and was thin enough to not make him sweat horribly like the last one he had. Chris ran his fingers across the midnight blue silk for a moment, and lifted it out of the box, placing it next to the clamps. Ross watched, quietly. 

Chris’ eyes met his curious gaze and tilted his head. “Anything else you’d like?” 

Ross moved his head a little to try and see more of the box, licking his lips again. “Gag? Maybe? Is that okay, Trott? If it’s not okay then I can go without-”    
  


“Hey, shh.” Chris pressed a finger to Ross’ lips. “No need to panic. You can have it. You always look so pretty with it on, sunshine.”    
  


Ross’ furrowed brow instantly relaxed, and he closed his eyes again, breathing heavily through his nose. Chris traced the taller’s lip with his finger, tapping at it gently. Ross silently understood, and opened his mouth for Chris to hold two fingers on his tongue. Ross’ lips closed around them, and sucked gently, his tongue moving very slightly around the digits. 

Chris began slowly climbing back on top of his boyfriend, and reached down for the gag, holding the soft leather strap in one hand while the other was occupied. Ross kissed at the tips of Chris’ fingers as he withdrew them from his mouth, slowly. 

Chris reached to hold the other strap in his other hand. “I’m going to put the gag in, now, sweetheart.” he said. “Can you tilt your head forward a little, for me?” 

Ross complied silently, his head hanging, mouth open. Chris placed the little pierced ball into the man’s mouth, his expression softening as Ross’ teeth latched on. He clasped the seal at the back of Ross’ head, trying not to catch any hair in it. Once finished, he kissed Ross’ cheek, and he leaned back again, eyes open. 

Chris smiled. “Good?” 

Ross nodded. 

“I’m glad, sunshine. I’m going to do the clamps now, okay?” he asked, and smiled wider when he got another nod. Chris wanted to shower him in praise. 

Instead, he leaned down and pinched each clamp between his fingers. “I’m going to do the left one first,” he said, leaning down to kiss at the space between a pink scar and the stiff bud. Ross’ answering moan made Chris’ toes curl as he attached the metal. “Then the right.” He kissed below the other nipple, then clamped it, and Ross’ moan went on a little longer, was a little deeper. Ross looked at his boyfriend, eyes liddled, inhaling and exhaling heavily at Chris’ touch.

“Good boy,” Chris praised, coaxing Ross to relax little by little. 

“How does it feel, sunshine?” Chris asked, running his hand down the planes of Ross’ chest. “One finger for bad, two for good.”

Ross held up two fingers, from where his hands were bound above his head. His eyes were bright, smiling.

“Good, I’m glad,” he murmured. “Going to put the blindfold on, now okay?”

Ross nodded his head, taking a deep breath.

Chris worked quickly, tying it securely over the baby blue eyes of his lover. 

Ross looked a sight, all bound and with the silvery metal against his pale chest. Chris thought of riding him, like this, and the dull presence of his own arousal throbbed, along with the ever-present plug he’d put in earlier. 

“Still feel good, sweetheart?” Chris murmured.

Ross nodded, taking in a shaky breath, and held up two fingers.

Chris spent the next few moments soothing Ross. Not that Ross needed it from anxiety or impatience, but because Chris knew that new pain always made Ross feel a tad unsteady, a little unsure. They’d never used metal clamps before, or a chained pair. 

“You can always knock the headboard if you want me to stop, you know that. Or kick at the sheets a little.”

“Mhm,” Ross hummed, the air holes in the gag making it possible for the sound to carry. He sounded almost half asleep. Chris gently picked up the chain and gave it a soft yank upwards.

Ross moaned thickly, the sound rousing Chris’ cock more than he thought possible.

“Oh, this calls some very pretty sounds out of you,” Chris cooed, yanking it at a slightly different angle, his thumb hooking the chain. 

Ross whined, his hips bucking against Chris’ bulging underwear. 

“Want me to ride you, sunshine?” Chris whispered. “Want me to ride you while tugging on your chain?” He punctuated his query with a slightly harder yank.

Ross whimpered, bucking his hips again, and his head nodding.

Chris chuckled, setting the chain down and lifting himself up from Ross’ abdomen, tugging off his boxers. The plug inside of him shifted and he groaned as it brushed up against his prostate. He grabbed the base of the plug and slowly pulled it out, arching his back and giving a moan of his own. 

Ross listened, a whimper echoing in his throat.

Chris leaned over and kissed Ross’ dark lips, amazed at how pliant his lover becomes at the softest gestures. There was a jerk on his bonds, a silent plea.

“Would you want the blue one? The strapless?” 

Ross nodded again, his chin hitting against his chest. Chris melted a little, reaching into the box again to grab at the toy. 

It had a weight to it, the strap on, almost matching the blindfold hiding Ross' eyes. With a length and thickness that the shorter man was already heavily anticipating and a bulbous end to ensure it stayed rooted inside of Ross during their escapades. Chris rubbed the smaller end against Ross' slick entrance, grinning at a huffed moan before pressing it inside the bound man. The high keen made him shiver and his patience for waiting grew thin.  Chris sat up and lined himself up with the thick toy, sinking down slowly.

Ross whined, resisting the urge to buck his hips, to bury himself deeper within his lover, to bring Chris as much pleasure as he brought him.

“So good,” Chris panted his praise. “So good for me, sunshine.” He finally slid fully onto the cock, taking a moment to inhale and let his body relax. Ross twitched against the textured panel resting against him. 

“Good boy,” Chris swiveled his hips around, watching some sweat gather on Ross’ brow and in the dip of his throat. “I’m honoured to help you feel good.” He slipped his fingers under the chain that was attached to the nipple clamps, hearing Ross’ breathing stutter, briefly. Tugging the chain taut, Chris began riding Ross a little harder.

He rocked up and down Ross’ length, keeping the chain taut and watching Ross resist every urge to buck his hips up. Whimpers, whines, and whispers echoed throughout the bedroom, almost drowning out Chris’ praise to him, even though the other man was louder, even when gagged.

It was as slow as Chris had set it out to be, with Ross’ moans turning into purrs and whines becoming panting sounds through the gag. Chris came first, and he did so all over Ross’ chest and neck. The sensation of Chris’ grinding down on the toy and the come all over his abdomen sent him over the edge, coming around the base of the toy.

Chris slumped over Ross, kissing his cheek gently as they came down from their highs. He ran his hands up and down Ross’ bound arms, quickly undoing the ties. Ross’ hands fell to his sides, limp. Chris cooed, sitting back to inspect his chest. 

“I’m going to take the clamps off, now,” he whispered. “It’s going to hurt, but it’s okay. I’m here. Ready?”

Ross nodded listlessly, still breathing loudly.

Chris removed the clamps quickly, soothing Ross’ soft cries of pain with gentle kisses to the swollen nubs, running his hands up and down Ross’ sides. “It’s okay, it’s okay, they’re off,” he whispered.

Chris worked on taking off the gag and blindfold, kissing over his nose and licking at his chapped lips. 

Once Ross had calmed, and was near sleep, Chris slowly slipped off of his cock, shuddering as he started to feel the gentle tingle of a cramp start trailing down the inside of his thigh. He padded to the bathroom and cleaned himself up before grabbing a warm and damp washcloth to clean Ross off, and a cup of cool water.

He padded back into their bedroom, smiling as Ross was wiping his toy clean, before tossing it towards the box. He looked ready to pass out. Ross really needed to go down, if that was of any indication. A scene always wore him out.

He cleaned up his almost-sleeping boyfriend and set the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed with him. Chris wrapped his arms around Ross, resting his head on the taller man’s chest and listening to the steady heartbeat. Kissing his jaw, he smiled.

“Sleep, sunshine,” he whispered softly. “You deserve it. So proud of you.”

  
  



	3. Disinfect the scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smith with ADHD, having a meltdown? Coming right up. (I had a bad day, so he will too.)
> 
> (Muscle to muscle and toe to toe, the fear has gripped me but here I go)

Smith's skin is  _ burning _ . He’s in a small, personal kind of hell, and if he doesn't get out of this class soon, he thinks he's going to lose his mind. 

He's in a back corner of his history classroom, trying to get this essay checked over and completed so that he can go back to his dorm and be with his boyfriends, but he's not getting anywhere.  _ Nobody  _ is getting anywhere, and it's terrible. Medical history was absolutely no one’s strong point, after spending a year specialising in Roman history. Smith alternates between curling in his chair and rocking, and tapping his laptop screen to stop his hands flapping. Kim sits a few feet away and watches, concern lining her soft features. Smith makes a choked angry noise in the back of his throat.

There are too many people, too many footsteps, voices, sounds, faces, movements, eyes, way too fucking many. 

Leaving now wouldn’t solve anything. He'd either have to come back later and carry on, or just take the stress to his dorm and freak out there too, so he figured that he might as well stick around and get it over and done with, but he can't do it. 

Fucking hell.

Someone is saying something to the class, but it's all nonsense noise, blending into the background with the other noise and Smith sits up then down again, slamming down into the chair and pressing his hands over his ears because he doesn't want to be here anymore, but he's not sure if he has the option to leave. The sounds feel like they're burrowing, into his ears into his skin down his throat, and Jesus, this is terrible. 

Someone shouts something, there's another slightly muffled noise, someone's hand wraps around Smith's arm. 

Smith makes a sound, deep and guttural in his throat, and wrenches his arm away and presses in on himself, he knows his legs won't fit on this chair, so he doesn't try to curl up the way he really wants to, but he curls his upper body down and presses his hands against his ears harder and his arms against his chest the best he can. 

And he rocks harder. 

There are voices, muffled, but not nearly muffled enough, there are tears in his eyes and pushing past his tightly shut eyelids, and Smith thinks he's going to vomit. 

He has to remind himself that he's in public, he's in the place where he studies, because his shirt is brushing against his body in all the wrong ways and he wants to take it off, wants to take off his shoes and probably also his jeans, but he knows that he can't do that. Instead he tries to twist his body, tries to find some position where the fabric isn't torture, but he's not doing a very good job and so he stops and just has to sit there in his clothes and whimper, pathetically, like a child.

He eventually notices that the noise is dimming down. He doesn't know what's actually happening, he's hidden behind closed eyelids and the palms of his hands, but he does know that it's getting quieter. He tries to focus on that, the quieter and the rocking motion of his body, and things start to calm down. His rocking loses the intensity, his breathing gets easier, the tears stop. He lets his hands relax a little so that they're still covering his ears, but they're not pressed down as hard. 

He risks opening his eyes.

Legs.

He glances up and sees Kim, planted firmly in between Smith and the rest of the room, shielding him from the noise and motion and hands of nosy people. Kim isn't looking at Smith, but the rest of the class are. 

Kim notices and twists around, glancing back at Smith, and asks, "Are you okay?" 

Smith shrugs. 

"We're going to leave, okay?" She says, and Smith opens his mouth, tries to say  _ "Stop that, I'm fine, it's okay," _ but nothing comes out. He looks up at Kim’s face, and Smith can tell that even if he could find the voice and words to say things, she wouldn't listen to him anyway. Smith closes his mouth, sighs a little through his nose, and stands. 


	4. Dive down to the bottom of the pool where we belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> umy - two waterfae have water sex, yeah
> 
> (Chairs, inflatables have sunk to the bottom)

Trott leans back, taking in the view of the little reservoir. It was a good find; shallow enough near the edges of the basin, and deeper in the middle, where Smith was apparently doing laps. The water was clear enough and just between a lake and the sea to be fair on them both, but Trott was still hesitant to go any further in than he was; sitting beside a boulder, the water lapping at his elbows, fingers tracing some seaweed, imagining it as someone’s hair. 

He kicks his feet, creating small ripples, and looks over to the kelpie swimming several yards away. 

"Trott, watch me!" Smith shouts, before leaping into the air like a dolphin and splashing back into the water with a large splash. 

Trott laughs, shaking his head fondly as Smith makes his way over to Trott’s perch, and the man flashes a sharp-toothed grin at him from under the surface of the water. 

He bobs his head up, hovering just above Trott’s legs, his hands either side of them. He leans up, gives him a peck on the cheek, then dives back again. 

The selkie rolls his eyes, and lays back further, using the boulder as possibly the worst pillow he’s ever had. He starts kicking his feet gently as he awaits Smith’s resurface.

After a while, he realizes something must be wrong and sits up, eyes narrowed. The reservoir is quiet, and Smith is nowhere to be seen. Trott grows concerned. 

Something suddenly lunges out of the hazy water, too fast to even see, and takes a firm hold of Trott's ankle. He yelps in shock and attempts to wrench himself free, but without any hesitation it drags him off the rock, into the water, and several yards to the middle of the lake. Trott manages to twist free of its grip and swims to the surface. He looks around warily, catching his breath. 

Something swims past him, brushing against his leg, and he jerks away. Trott feels the thing swimming in circles around him. It stops suddenly and slithers up his thigh, sending chills up his spine. It hooks into the waist of Trott's underwear and pulls down swiftly, bringing the underwear with it. The mysterious being disappears and Trott hears a loud splat from the boulder, again. He turns toward it and sees the faint outline of what he is sure must be his wet underwear. 

The selkie lets out a sharp exhale as he feels a hand slide up the back of his thigh to his ass, squeezing gently. He looks down at the dark water. It definitely feels like a hand. A second hand slides up his other thigh to rest on the other cheek of his ass. He knows these hands. 

"Alex." 

The kelpie surfaces and immediately locks Trott's lips in a kiss, pulling the selkie’s hips closer. Something stiff knocks against his ankle, and Smith breaks away with a soft gasp. 

“Really? Here?” 

Smith swallows whatever comeback he had, eyes shining from just above the water surface. Trott places his hand on Smith's nape. 

“Where's your dignity, sunshine?” 

Smith grunts, a kind of tenderness in his gaze. Trott only chuckles, brushing his thumb over Smith’s lip. He regards Trott again, a few moments later, a trademark smirk plastered over his face. "Trott, I wanted to swim and show you my tricks, but you were being boring, so now I want you to come in my mouth." 

Trott snorts a little, resting most of his weight on Smith’s shoulders. “Since when does wanting get?” 

Smith grins, before slowly sinking back down into the water, and swiftly enveloping Trott's cock in his mouth. Trott's soft noises are unexpected. He was usually so guttural. 

“Oh, fuck. Okay. This time, maybe- Hnnn.”

The noises grew louder as Smith does all the little things that Trott loves with his tongue, brings him closer to his peak. The kelpie gives a final smile around his cock, staring up at the shorter man from below the water’s surface, and Trott releases himself, gripping onto Smith’s hair for purchase. The taller swallows, instinctively,  sucking every last drop off of Trott’s softening cock. He surfaces, lips curled up at the corners, and teeth bared in a smile. 

Trott hooks his hands behind the kelpie’s neck and pulls himself down, wrapping his legs around Smith’s hips, dipping his head just below the water in for a kiss. His tongue dances with Smith's, their hair floating about their faces. Trott lets his hand wander down, massaging the taller’s aching erection. 

Smith's moans are so soft and arousing that Trott feels himself starting to stiffen back up, but before he can consider doing anything about it, Smith jerks against Trott’s hand, then slows. 

The selkie plants a delicate kiss on his cheek. 

“Ugh, you’re being all cutesy again.” Smith laughs a little. His hair sticks to his forehead, eyes gleaming. He always looks his best in the water; which makes sense, really. 

"I’m just remembering back when we were like this all of the time." Trott murmurs against the taller’s cheek. “When the city wasn’t so raging.”

Smith chuckles. "There’s good things, too, though." He wraps an arm around Trott's waist and starts kicking his feet a little, so that they start floating towards the rocks. “Ross, Sips, the shop. City isn’t kind but we are. To each other anyway. And fuck anyone else.” 

Trott smiles, his nose against the kelpie’s temple. “Is that your philosophy, Smith? Fuck the city?”

Smith kicks a little faster, biting a smile. “Man’s gotta eat, mate.” 

Trott hangs on tighter, ankles crossed at the small of Smith’s back. He thinks of cheap beer cans and sapphires, and presses another kiss to Smith’s cheek. 


	5. Doors open like arms, my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay maybe I like the university au.

Smith’s at home between Ross’ legs, thumbs hooking the designer’s knees equal distance from his head. Ross’ hands are higher up, one curled into a fist on his chest and the other one being chewed on to keep quiet. 

Smith started to bob his head a little, brushing his nose over Ross’ hood. He dips his tongue in once, twice, and the brunet above him begins to buck his hips. 

“Smith?” The way he twists his pitch makes it sound like a question. 

The taller only hums as an affirmation, licking long stripes. Ross shakes his hands. 

“Smith- Smith stop-” 

The taller immediately pulls back, adjusting his jaw as he comes away. His chin and lips are wet, and the taste in his mouth isn’t going away anytime soon. His hands are still on his lover. 

“Ross?” Smith looks up. Ross’ eyes are a little unfocused, and he hasn’t stopped shaking his hands. “What’s wrong, mate?”

He can see Ross swallowing before he speaks. Smith's thumb brushes over the scar tissue underneath one of his pecs.

“Stop touching me.” The brunet finally says, quietly but clearly. Smith's hands are immediately off, and he’s scrambling to get on the mattress next to his lover instead of on top of him. 

“What’s wrong?” Smith asks again, anxiety thrumming through him as his usually calm and attentive lover turns away and curls up, his back to the taller man. He briefly sets his hand down on Ross’ shoulder, then recoils when he remembers that he doesn’t want to be touched. 

“I’m sorry. I've never had overload during sex.” Ross’ teeth are chattering. “I'm sorry.”

“Do you want me to touch you anywhere?” 

“We can go back to it in a minute, if you want- I just need a minute.” 

Smith nods, laying on his back. He watches Ross’ shoulders slightly rise and fall as he stabilises his breathing. When he rolls over, his eyes are red but he’s not crying. 

Ross reaches up to touch at his boyfriend's cheek. “Did I kill your boner?” 

Smith laughs breathily. “Don't think you could if you tried.” 

Ross smiles. He brushes his thumb over Smith's lip, slowly. “Thank you for stopping.” 

Smith takes Ross’ thumb into his mouth, fluttering his lashes. Ross snorts.


	6. but you don't know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smith has a thing for Trott's hair. 
> 
> Tags; fixations, body worship?, shared shower

Trott dying his hair came as a surprise. Smith had known him since they were both in primary school, and it had always been the same. Chocolate brown, like his eyes, in that same cut and style. 

Whatever made him bite the bullet and go white of all things must have been huge. And if Smith is completely honest with himself, he can’t bring himself to complain. 

In fact, he might just like it too much.

The way that it shines in the sunlight in the morning, because this was his first bleaching and his hair was still glossy somehow. How the white made him look paler somehow. 

When they first started fooling around together, it wasn’t white. Smith was there for the whole transition. And by transition he meant ‘We can’t be up too late, mate, I’ve got a hair appointment in the morning.’ 

Right now, they’re showering. Smith’s stood behind Trott, lathering shampoo into his hair. 

"Mmm, that does actually feel good.” Mumbles Trott as Smith washes his hair from behind in the shower. He massages his scalp, digging his fingers between the strands.

Smith's lips split until he forms a grin. "Yeah? You like that?"

"Yeah, I do."

It makes Smith giddy. He continues to spread his fingers around in Trott's hair, lightly scratching at the parts that fade from dark brown to platinum white. 

He lets his lips latch onto Trott's shoulder. 

___

 

Trott's asleep in their bed, dreaming of something unknown to Smith. He watches him, quietly.

The feel of it as Smith glides his fingers through it is enough to set aside any stress from his whole week. It's all so intoxicating for some reason.

Smith is also in bed, but he’s sitting up. Smith smirks in the darkness, and puts a few locks of hair behind Trott's ear. He mutters in his sleep, and smiles. He only awakes when Smith starts playing in his hair again.

"What are you doing, Smith?"

Smith retracts his hand. "Nothing. Just couldn't sleep. Go back to bed, mate."

"You were touching my hair. Just like you always do."

"You're talking shit, mate."

Trott sits up with a yawn. "You like my hair. I know you do. I think it's cute."

But still, Smith holds tight to ignorance. He huffs, "Don't know what you're talking about, Trott."

"You think I don't see it, but I know you, Smith. You don't need to make up excuses. Not to me. Never to me."

Smith winces a little when he meets Trott’s eyes. "And you're not freaked out?"

 

“No, Smith.” 

Smith nods, and lays back down, facing Trott. There’s a comfortable quiet following that, where the older is shuffling to lay on his side, back to Smith. 

“C’mon, you. Front to my back and your face in my hair.” 

Smith nearly clicks his heels.


	7. foothills, your warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hatelove. Hate makeouts, hate fuck. I'm not entirely sure what this dynamic is, or if I did it right. 
> 
> Au where they're in a cooking compettition and are rivals. 
> 
> Tags; choking, powerplay, d/s elements

 

“Well, look who it is.” Smith grins, almost villainous. “The bread failure really hit you that hard?” 

 

Trott stood opposite him on the taller’s doorstep, fist still raised from when he only gave two knocks on the door. Smith’s smile was saying everything that Trott didn’t want to know about right now; the smugness of knowing he would show up for another fling after Trott was adamant he wouldn’t. The shorter man was as angry as he was turned on. If arousal on was any measure of how pissed off he was about the whole ordeal, then it would be safe to call himself furious.   
  
“I knew you didn’t listen to me betting that you would come back, but there’s probably rules against this, Trott.” He continued.    
  
“I didn’t say you could talk.” The brunet snaps. “Just get my shirt off, save your damn smart mouth for the cameras.”   
  
Smith still joyfully laughed as Trott frowned from beneath him, yet the taller slipped his hands around Trott’s waist, lifting up the shorter’s shirt hem.   
  
The two were complete opposites, right down to their heights. Smith was Trott’s rival in this cooking competition, was being held two floors away in the contest’s hotel placement, and since the entries, had made Trott’s life a living hell. 

The shorter man had been cooking for life. Culinary school, top of his class, followed everything by the books. He entered the contest to prove his skill, and to challenge what he already knew. 

Smith’s style was so much more spontaneous and Trott just did not understand it for a second. He knew his recipes off the back of his hand, and added and took away ingredients like they were nothing and everything at once. He rubbed his victories in the shorter’s face every time with snide comments, little remarks to the cameramen. 

Trott had been to Smith’s room more than he would want to admit. The first time was to nip the insults away, and they ended up having a long drawn face off against a wall. The second was making out and pure grinding, and the third Trott swore as loud as he’d yelled his rival’s name that he wouldn’t be back for more.   
  


Hence why he continues to scowl as he kicks his shoes off at the foot of Smith’s bed.   
  
Smith’s hands are practiced by now, and he knows where to touch to get Trott’s mind wandering. He’s much better than any long term relationship he’d had. And God, Trott was pissed off about it for a number of reasons that even he couldn’t put into words.   
  
Mostly, he was angry with himself for allowing things to get this far. He was enthralled by Smith, his charms, his ways with words. And on the other hand, Smith was fascinated by Trott’s body, his practiced formulas for cooking and speaking.    
  
“You’ve got a body like a prince, mate.” The taller says, nosing Trott’s collar, his hands around his waist. Smith lifted him up, enough for Trott to wrap his thighs around the taller’s hips.   
  


“Shouldn’t you serving me, then?” Trott breathed, and Smith, placing his thumb and forefinger gently on Trott’s hair peppered chin, turned his face up to his lips, and kissed him with a grunt from his throat that made Trott’s legs want to slam shut. He felt like a teenager with a crush on a teacher he hated, and for that reason, he kissed Smith back, slipping his tongue in between his lips.    
  
Smith leaned them over to the bed, and fell backwards with Trott on top of him, and the shorter couldn’t help smirking.    
  
“Trott, babe…” he pried, lifting his hands to circle his shoulders.    
  
The brunet scowled. “ _Don’t_ call me that.”   
  
“Are you liking it up there?”   
  
“Stop talking to me.”   
  
“I just want to know, mate.”   
  
“Stop talking.”   
  
Smith only laughed again, grinding up a little, and no matter how much he tried to hate it, Trott couldn’t help the resounding moan that came from the familiar, lustful press between his legs.   
  
Smith grinds up more fervently, trying to press Trott down against him. Trott lets a little noise slip out, and immediately regrets it at the taller’s grin.

 

“What was that, prince?” he whispers.    
  
“Harder,” Trott breathed a little louder, ashamed of the request.    
  
“Oh, with pleasure.”   
  
Trott leans down, bending his back more than was comfortable, and their lips meet again. 

 

And it’s a  _ battle _ .   
  
Trott’s hands slide through Smith’s now messy red hair, tugging him this way and that. Smith’s hands danced up Trott’s back as they kissed, teeth threatening. Occasionally, the taller would breathily laugh against the shorter’s lips, maybe just to piss him off more. Trott would have his hands gripped to him as they kissed, and grinded. He tried his best to show that he wanted so badly to be touched, to be fucked, to be wrecked, without saying it aloud.

 

Smith would never let him live a day after saying it aloud.    
  
Smith, in the meantime, works on flipping them over, so Trott is laying flat on his back and the redhead is straddling his thighs.   
  
Trott’s hands move from holding onto Smith’s shoulders to gripping onto the poles of the headboard above him. The taller starts kissing; down from his neck to his chest to his ribs, slowly. It makes Trott writhe.   
  
“Smith…” Trott breathed out, a heady mixture of lustful and furious. “Get on with it?”   
  
“Oh, no, Chris. You came here tonight, it’s my turn to have my way,” he said, flashing those teeth again. “And you’re going to hate yourself for enjoying it, aren’t you?”   
  
Trott felt another flash of anger tug his eyes open, and he grabbed Smith’s wrist and shoved it between his legs. The man above him rubbed him through his underwear, tracing shapes in the cotton.    
  
“You mind getting fucked, then, your highness?”   
  
Trott made a noise of  _ yes,  _ and Smith smiled the same pointed grin.   
  
“Don’t look at me like that.” Trott glares.   
  
“Tell me, Chris.” 

 

“Alex.” Trott tries. Smith’s face is genuinely confused, and he relishes in it. Trott raises a hand to press his thumb into the hollow of Smith’s throat, and that’s a very new noise from the taller man. Trott smirks. 

 

“I don’t  _ mind _ it, but I’d rather be on top of you.”   
  
“Ah.” Smith whispered, face flushed patches of pink and red.    
  
“You’d do well to remember who’s in charge here, you know?” Trott says, pushing Smith back until his head is teetering on hanging off of the mattress. Trott sits prettily on top of the redhead’s heaving chest, hand still planted firmly on his throat.   
  
Smith gasped for breath as Trott removed his hand. Trott tugged his underwear down, and let Smith do the same. 

 

There was some fumbling with a little packet of lube on Smith’s part, with Trott stroking himself and watching from Smith’s midriff.    
  
Eventually, Trott guided himself down in Smith’s lap, rolling his eyes back. Smith made a noise of surprised satisfaction, of desire. Trott had never heard that before, and that was enough to make him lose himself in the moment.   
  
“Fuck…” Smith hissed, loosely holding the shorter man’s waist as he let himself be ridden. “Fuck!”   
  
Trott rode Smith harder, letting his hand wander back up to the taller’s throat again.

 

Trott tipped his head back, groaning. Smith made a little keening noise.   
  
“Not yet, Trott…”   
  
“Ugh, or what?” the shorter tutted.    
  
Smith smiled again, even through his breathlessness. He raised a hand to grip Trott’s cock tightly in his palm, and the brunet almost chokes.    
  
Smith’s touch against Trott’s cock quickens once more; rubbing circles around Trott’s head, and the shorter cannot help but come in the second that Smith quickened his pace.   
  
Trott comes with a scream, with his back arched; his voice breaks into a hoarse, cracked moan of pleasure, and Smith smiles lazily in triumph.    
  
Trott collapses, limbs slack from the fuck. Smith peels his hands from his throat, trying to blow some cool air at the flushed skin there with his hand.   
  
From that moment on, the only thing to be heard in the little hotel room is the traffic outside, the television's background noise, and the two of them gasping for breath.

 

Smith’s hand finds Trott’s and they clasp on, quickly. A squeeze. 

  
  
  



	8. Never let me sink, always feel at home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 6am, and I haven't slept, so I wrote it all out. Good people have been keeping me afloat recently, and they know who they are. Talking about golden dresses stopped a panic attack and playing video games stopped some bad isolation. 
> 
> warnings and tags; i really press that Chris, here, is depressed. there is a tiny hint about self injury when you squint, eating disorder warning, and just general sad monologue. I'll be back with happier things soon, because I'm making a halloween prompt list soon and plan to write every day for that! 
> 
> tumblr; urbna

When Chris woke up, he wasn’t as surprised as he would have been about a week ago, upon realising that his gut-gripping misery had decided to accompany him once again. 

He opened his eyes to check that Alex and Ross were both still asleep. They both were; Ross had turned in his sleep, on the left, facing the bedside. Alex had turned over, too, only onto his front, and was tilting his face slightly just so he could breathe. He slept like a plank. Any other day, Chris would laugh about it, but today he only let out a shaky sigh, and carefully withdrew his arm from beneath Ross’ waist so he could sit up and shuffle himself to the foot of the bed so he could stare at the wall. 

A low and restless ache settled deep in his stomach. Chris pushed his palms down onto his knees so that he could pull himself upwards onto his feet. They tingled as his weight settled on them for the first time since yesterday evening. 

Chris quietly padded out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

They deserved better than him, surely, he thought. 

He crept into the bathroom, and picked up the small plastic cup beside the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror as he turned the tap to fill the cup. His hair needed bleaching again, soon. It was looking more gold than white, and he hated it. It stuck up in places, was too long. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and there was a crease across his cheek from how he was sleeping against Ross’ shirt. It looked like an ugly, ugly scar. 

Chris scratched at his thigh, and turned off the tap. He brought the cup to his mouth and took the water in one gulp. It was cold down his throat, soothed the heat a little. 

They deserved each other; Alex and Ross. Even their names together sounded good, like a happy celebrity couple, the sort with their lives set out by themselves and high ambitions that they’d take head on, together. They’d marry and the press would love it, and the public would love it, because everyone eats up happy gay couples in the media.

Chris sniffled lowly. He wasn’t the jealous type, but the idea of them enjoying each other’s company without him struck his soul. 

He went about his business, readying himself and showering before padding into the kitchen. Alex’s workout clothes were still on the table, and shoving those on was a lot easier than going back into his- their bedroom to get fresh clothes. He quickly shoved the zipper on and pulled up the sweatpants that were at least three sizes bigger than he was, and then opened up the fridge door. 

They were well off, really. They had enough food for practically the month and some. Pre-made meals in containers filled up most of the top shelf: part of Alex’s new routines that he was advertising to his colleagues was to have this rice mix for 5 days per week. A leftover cake that Ross had brought home from work a few days ago was in a tupperware cake carrier. It was a dark chocolate one, with fresh strawberries cut to look like roses on top. There were three slices missing. Ross was entirely too proud of the recipe, and Alex felt guilty for every bite because there was so much sugar in the little slice he took. 

Chris took a bottle of water and closed the door. He wasn’t hungry, he tried to tell himself. He hadn’t been hungry yesterday, or the day before, either. 

He’d go on a walk. A long one, around town. It was early enough that he’d be home before Ross and Alex went to work, so he could send them off well, and they wouldn’t have time to ask what was wrong. Perfect plan. 

Chris took his keys off of the hook beside their calendar, and slipped into his shoes, before unlocking the door as quietly as he could, and taking a step outside. 

The fresh air was way too fresh. It was freezing, and the ground was wet. Chris just pulled up his hood, smelling of Alex’s day-old sweat, and locked the door. He set off down the street, towards the end of the block. 

With every step, time seemed to slow down, thick as honey. He kept thinking back to how well they would be doing without him. They would be such a successful couple. Fitness trainer and head chef against the world. Both with lovely and accepting families, good friends. Good lives. 

That wasn’t to say that Chris didn’t want to be without them. The thought of living a day without them was enough to bring on another breakdown, and he was far too exhausted for that. He loved them with everything he had, and he knew that they loved him too. 

He was walking so continuously that he hadn’t realised that he had broken into a jog. He stopped himself at the corner, and looked back at his street. He looked ahead again. 

Why hadn’t he said anything when he got out of bed, or was about to leave the room? They were both light sleepers. Chris could speak. 

But as he stood there, five minutes away from his own front door, Chris knew why. All he had to say was ‘Help me,’ and he’d have been helped. More likely, he would have woke them up by shaking their shoulders and choking out a ‘Help me,’ and crying messily. 

If he had just asked for help, there was no doubt that they would have refused to leave his side and pried the spikes from his gut. They always helped him when he admitted that he needed it. But all he was doing was avoiding it. Running away. Not eating. Hurting himself.

Chris dropped his water bottle and sprinted back home. He opened the door as fast as he could, and kicked off his shoes. He went to go into the bedroom, and walked straight into Alex’s chest. 

“Trott! Fuck, where were you-” Chris squeezed his sides and cut him off. Alex’s hands fell down to Chris’ shoulders, and squeezed. 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Alex promised. Chris felt the pressure in his gut release itself slowly, and he pressed his cheek harder on the taller man’s chest.


End file.
